


Dodged a Bullet

by interstitial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Betrayal/Abuse of trust, But Fic Includes Dean's Thoughts and Feeelings About Sam When Sam Was Underage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Nonconsensual Breathplay/Choking, POV Dean Winchester, POV: Perpetrator, Possessive Dean Winchester, Pre-Stanford Era (Supernatural), sam is 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 18:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/pseuds/interstitial
Summary: Sam needs to learn a lesson. Or maybe Dean just needs to teach one.





	Dodged a Bullet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlindSwandive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/gifts).



> Thanks to my amazing beta, and to the mods of Nonconathon for providing such a wonderful challenge/exchange.
> 
> **Warnings: Fic is sympathetic to the perpetrator and contains age-related issues that, while not technically a depiction of CSA, may be triggering for some. If that's not your thing, please practice good self-care and pass it by.**

By the time Dean realizes he should go after Sam, his brother's a mirage on the horizon. Dad's still inside fuming, and Sam's probably fuming too, out there walking down Rte 37 all by himself at the edge of Dean's vision.

It's not an emergency—well okay, it’s an emergency to Dean, sure, but it’s not a _real_ emergency, so he trots to the Impala instead of sprinting. He drops the keys while fumbling with the lock, but only once, and he manages to drive out onto the blacktop at a reasonably sedate pace, at least by hunters' standards.

Except for Sam, 37 is empty as far as the eye can see in both directions. Sam's walking along the shoulder, kicking up dust with his gigantor cryptid feet. The corn in the surrounding fields is almost as tall as he is, nearly grown and Heartland-perfect in the afternoon sun.

Dean idles up behind his brother and cranks down his window. He rests his arm on the window frame and sticks his elbow out into the blistering August heat, fake casual like he's trawling for a girl.

"Gonna walk to California?"

Sam just keeps on moving, pointed resolutely forward, like Dean’s not even there. His mouth pulls down in a sullen pout, and he looks like the angry teenager he still barely is.

"C'mon, Sam. Don't be a dick about it. Get in the car."

Sam trails to a stop. Dean stops too; brakes Baby right down to nothing miles per hour, smack dab in the middle of the road. If the 3.5 tractors that are probably the only vehicles in this whole god forsaken town show up now, they’ll just have to pull around.

"I'm not going back," Sam says defiantly.

"Didn't say you were."

Sam stands there in the breakdown lane studying Dean, while Dean checks the rearview for traffic and battles manfully with his fingers not to tap along to the stereo. Sam hates it when he does that, and fun as antagonizing Sam is, now's definitely not the time. Dean's back aches from tension like he's been digging graves all morning. When Sam finally shrugs his duffle off his shoulder and folds himself into the shotgun seat, Dean rolls his neck until the vertebrae crack and breathes a sigh of relief. The fields of Jasper, Missouri, population nine hundred, roll out in front of them, bright and shiny as a polyester bedspread.

——

Dean drives. He listens to his music and Sam is as silent as a stone. Robert Plant moans himself to the climax of _Dazed and Confused,_ and Dean ejects the tape.

"It wasn't supposed to go this way," Sam offers, as if all he'd been waiting for was a break in the tunes. He swallows loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.

For such a smart guy, Sam is really friggin' dumb. Dean could've predicted the entire argument, right down to the slamming door, if he'd only known what Sam was planning. Dad's ultimatum hangs in the air like an angry ghost between them. Dean slides Zep back in for the B side, but instead of _Your Time Is Gonna Come,_ there's a weird, discordant buzz. He stabs at the eject button, but nothing happens. He bangs on the deck with his fist, but it only delivers a few strangled clicking noises, and he has to turn it off or lose a favorite album to the rollers.

"Dad didn't mean it," he says.

Sam makes a humorless snorting noise. His knees knock against the glove compartment when he scrunches around to angle himself away from Dean. He stares sullenly out the passenger side window, like there's anything to see besides rows upon rows of identical cash crops. Dean's not sure what town they're in, and on any other day, he might ask Sam for directions. Today though, his driving is aimless. He didn't think past 'get Sam in the car where he can't disappear'.

"A normal family would be happy for me," Sam says flatly.

Dean grits his teeth and doesn't reply. It's just another variant of the exact same complaints Dean's been hearing since Sam was ten. The years have conditioned him into a blunt disregard for them, shuffled them off into the 'Sam likes to whine about crap Dean can't fucking fix' box in his head, and he wishes they would stay there forever. _A normal family would live in one place, Dean. Would let me finish the semester, Dean. Would work nine to five at real jobs that paid real money, and not hunt monsters or hustle pool or live out of a car, no matter how much you love it, Dean._

But Sam sounds different now. Absent. Like he gave up years ago, and has only been holding on for the moment his body could follow the rest of him away. And Dean can't help wondering how long this seed's been growing, while he ignored it and didn't find some way to pull it out by the roots. Since Flagstaff at least. No wonder Dad was so mad.

"Yeah, well." Dean watches the road. His chest aches dully. "Too bad for you. You got us instead."

——

They're at the R&R Saloon outside Amity, Arkansas, population even less than Jasper. Dean still doesn't have a plan or anything; it just got dark, and Sam got restless, and Dean was afraid he'd stop at a light and Sam would bolt. The parking lot was nearly full and the lights were inviting, and Dean figured they could use some liquid insulation.

Dean's on his fifth—no, sixth maybe?—shot of bourbon, and he's had a couple beers too. Sam hasn't abandoned the beer-only stage of the game, but Dean's got the liver of a hunter twice his age and Sam's practically the Temperance Society, so their foot race to acute alcohol poisoning is still a toss up. Dean's in the middle of regaling Sam with an anecdote about a shifter he and Dad hunted in Corpus Christi while Sam was at that crappy high school with the flatworm mascot. They'd left him behind so he could study for his SATs, and it all tastes off in Dean’s mouth now, 'cause look what the SATs led to. But these are the stories Dean knows, so what else is he supposed to tell?

Sam interrupts. "I'm gonna head out."

Dean's brain drops a rod and clanks to a halt. "You—what?"

"I appreciate all this," Sam waves around vaguely at the crappy tables overflowing with empties, and the dance floor that's just some regular floor with the chairs pushed aside. He doesn't look like he appreciates much of anything. He looks lost and a little ill.

"But I should try to find a room for the night. I have a bus to catch tomorrow." His voice is almost gentle, which only makes it worse.

"L.A. gonna break off and fall in the ocean if you don't show up fast enough?"

Sam looks down at his half-empty beer bottle. The frown at the edges of his mouth is private, and his bangs fall forward to shadow his eyes. His hair is disarrayed from the sticky heat that clings to the air even after the sun's fallen. Dean's fingers itch to tuck the curls behind Sam's ears. He used to be able to do that sometimes—ease the thoughtlessness he knows his mouth is prone to with the competence of his hands. But Sam's not eight anymore. He got older, and it got weird, and now they barely touch except for sparring, and Sam even complains about that.

"Palo Alto," Sam corrects. Dean can barely hear him over the other patrons and the shitty sound system playing classic rock in the background.

"Whatever, Sam."

Sam's shoulders hunch in like maybe if he curls himself small enough, he can hide from Dean's disapproval. Dean polishes off the rest of his shot. Maybe if he gets drunk enough to stop talking, they can both hide together, each from the other.

"Guess we should get a move on then," Dean says, but they don't get up.

The crowd washes around them to the rhythm of packed bars everywhere, drifting into the space around their stools and then away again with newly acquired alcohol in hand. The bartender watches them out of the corner of his eye as he pours. He's an older dude, fifties maybe, rough around the edges, with faded blue ink on his arms and a crooked scar across the bridge of his nose. Mick Jagger wails about some anonymous woman making _a grown man cryyyy,_ while Dean turns his empty shot glass in his hands. The brittle comfort of the anecdote he was telling lies in shards on the floor, and he has no idea what to replace it with.

"You could come with me," Sam says bleakly. It's clear from his tone he knows it won't happen.

"You could not go," Dean lobs back.

"Dad said—"

"That's bullshit, Sam. You can turn your ass around anytime you want, and he'll bitch you out and make you run laps for your attitude, and then it'll be over."

Dean pushes his glass forward. He needs another drink. He needs five more drinks. A hundred. He needs to be unconscious.

"No one's _making_ you do anything," he says. He should definitely shut up now, but somehow he doesn't. His voice rises over the canned music, louder than he intends. The bartender's mouth twists down, and he stares at Dean outright. The look in his eyes sets Dean's teeth on edge. "You decided all on your lonesome you're too good for this life, Sam, so don't go blaming it on anyone else."

Dean gets that he’s not being fair. Sam’s just a kid, and kids—including, at the oddest and most devastating moments possible, even Sam—think the world is made of lollipops and unicorn butts. But Sam's long since pulled Dean's heart out through some weird, invisible hole in his chest, and it was bad enough before, when they were always tripping over each other. How's he supposed to live, now that Sam is carrying what's left of it so far away?

They argue, and Sam's voice rises too. His cheeks flush pink as a girl's from the alcohol and his anger. He looks good when he's mad; all sharp planes and angles, and none of the slouch he defangs himself with since he's gotten tall. Figures Dean would end up with a brother who's not only a massive pain in the ass but also unduly attractive.

Bartender Dude finishes up with a customer, and makes his way over to Dean. He crosses his arms across his chest. He's pretty ripped for an old guy, and whatever that look in his eyes is, it doesn't get less unsettling with proximity. It kinda makes Dean want to jam cold iron between his ribs and see what happens.

"Hey, how 'bout a refill here, Sport." Dean taps his glass on the epoxy bartop, because fighting Sam's apparently not bad enough; if there's a bear hiding somewhere in a gigantic fucking forest, Dean's gotta hunt it down too, so he can poke it with a stick.

"I think you've had enough," Bartender Guy says coldly. The scar on his nose is rubbery and irregular, and reminds Dean of a strip mine in reverse.

He turns toward Sam and his expression changes so thoroughly it's almost as if his face has melted off and revealed a second, entirely new one, underneath.

"You need me to call you a cab?" he asks. His expression is professionally sympathetic now, like a guidance counselor or a CPS worker. All he needs is the cardigan and he'll be all set to go take some rugrats away. Dean reaches into his pocket for his wallet; it's way past time to blow this backwoods hellhole.

"Not that it's any of my business, son—"

"Damn straight," Dean mutters. He lays a random wad of cash on the bar top.

“—but you seem like a nice kid." The bartender ignores Dean pointedly, like he and Sam have some super-secret affinity Dean's not privy to. "I remember what it's like being young and different. Gets so deep inside you it messes with your head. Feels almost like it's in your blood."

There's some weird emphasis on _in your blood_ that makes Dean's skin crawl, but Sam doesn't seem to notice. He's listening to Guidance Counselor CreepyEyes without any evident suspicion. His forehead crinkles up in that perplexed way it gets when he's trying to pay attention but is a little too toasted to process well.

"You seem familiar," he says.

CreepyEyes smiles.

"There's a hotel a couple miles up the road," he says, "or if you're tight on money, you can bunk on my couch for the night. It doesn't have to be sexual."

 _It doesn't **have to be** sexual? _A wave of anger breaks over Dean so hot and fast that for a minute he drowns underneath it completely. Sam's a third this motherfucker's age at most. Dean's gonna kill him. He's gonna lock Sam in the car and come back and murder him.

"I just feel for you, kid." The motherfucker in question jerks his head in Dean's direction. "You can do better than him."

Sales pitch complete, he stands there with both hands on his bar, arms spread out and palms flat down, owning his crappy old excuse for a place of employment. His eyes flick, dark and reptilian, to Dean, and a cold smile spreads across his face like he just won Dean's last dollar at poker.

This time, when he looks back at Sam, his smile barely changes. And yet Sam just sits there in front of him with his head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed. Sam is clearly unperturbed.

In fact, Sam is clearly _strategizing_. Sam's jaw is an angry, stubborn line, and his body is angled away from Dean, and there are spots of color still high up on his cheeks from their argument, and he's got a Grade A Certified Asshole right there to take his pissiness out on, but he's obviously still mad at Dean instead. And Dean can practically see the gears of stupid turning in his head.

"We're going, Sam. Now," Dean says firmly, like he’s talking to an errant child. The words have barely exited his mouth before he realizes they're a mistake. Sam isn't a child, and Dean is losing him. He gets up anyway.

Sam doesn't.

——

Dean drags Sam out of the R&R like a recalcitrant dog on a leash. Sam bitches as he's pulled along by the wrist, but he could break Dean's hold if he wanted to bad enough, and he doesn't try. CreepyEyes follows them out the door, but he stops on the cement steps under the red _MILLER HIGH LIFE_ sign, says _see you later, Sam,_ and goes back inside. He will definitely not be seeing Sam ever, and Dean figures they dodged an enormous bullet on that one.

Sam stumbles along behind Dean across the parking lot to where Baby's backed up against a field of weeds and litter and overgrown grass. Sodium lights cast islands of yellow into the night. Dean has to let Sam's wrist go to unlock the shotgun door, so he shoves Sam up against the quarter panel to keep him put. Baby rocks with Sam's weight, and Sam's drunk ass slides partway down the side before he manages to get his feet under him, and push away.

"Cut it out," Sam complains. He makes that prissy face of his and brushes Dean's hand off his shirt front. Dean's other hand is occupied with the keys, and Sam escapes his grasp. And because Dean's life can't get any more perfect, that's the moment Sam picks to walk.

"The fuck are you going?" Dean says to Sam's back.

Sam navigates around Baby's trunk and starts out towards the abandoned field with the exaggerated care of the intoxicated.

"To California," he replies over his shoulder. He doesn't even bother to turn around.

"Get back here," Dean demands.

"Make me."

Sam doesn't stop walking. He's at the border of cigarette butts and broken chunks of tarmac that separates the two lots when Dean catches up to him.

"C'mon, Sam. It's two a.m. and you're trashed in an empty field in the middle of freaking nowhere. You're like a chick in a horror movie waiting to get chainsawed."

"I am so not trashed," Sam bitches, "and besides, who stopped us here in the first place?"

Dean reaches for his arm—he's hauled Sam to the Impala once tonight, and annoying as it is, he can do it again.

And then they're in the weeds and litter, fighting.

Sam gets his first few jabs in through surprise. He never instigates, so Dean isn't ready, and he only realizes once his nose is a throbbing mess that maybe Sam didn't interpret the grab at his forearm as the tender loving care Dean intended.

Sam's a tough opponent now that he's freakishly tall and his reach is longer than God's, so Dean goes straight for a take down. Sam fights off a couple attempts and Dean takes a nasty knee to his ribs, but he finally manages to get in under Sam’s arms, grab his thighs, and unbalance him. Sam crashes to his back in a patch of overgrown grass, and Dean follows him down.

They grapple, and he ends up between Sam's legs. He can't seem to pass Sam's guard, and he's not getting anywhere offensively because Sam's squirming like a giant mutant eel. Eventually he just grabs Sam by the neck and holds on. The orange glow of the parking lot lights cast highlights on their darkened bodies. Gold shines in Sam's hair, reflects in the stupidly innocent fox-tilt of his eyes, clings to the shape of his open lips as he pants for breath.

"Tap out," Dean orders. He's got both hands around Sam's throat now, and Sam's air hungry and tiring. He's also a stubborn idiot though, so he doesn't do as Dean says. He thrashes ineffectually against Dean, and it feels shockingly good. Sam's legs are wrapped around Dean's waist, and Dean's dick is no shit smashed right up against Sam's ass, and there's clearly something wrong with Dean even beyond the baseline thinking-Sam's-hot problem. Because this isn't sparring, it's an honest-to-god knock down drag out. And Dean's cock is getting hard.

And okay, sure; it's not like he never popped a boner during training before. But he was a horny teenager then, who got wrestling wood whenever the wind blew, and it didn't really count. It was never at all like whatever the fuck is going on now. There was never this driving need before, racing though his blood and pounding in his head. Sam was never all golden and sweet as sin in his helplessness; or if he was, Dean didn't notice, or didn't care.

Sam was never leaving before.

That's what it comes down to really. Dean never knew Sam was leaving.

Sweat drips down Dean's back in the muggy heat. His cock aches inside his jeans.

How dare Sam look so vulnerable, and feel so perfect, and go away where Dean can't protect him? How dare he need so much from Dean—his meals cooked and his clothes washed and his math homework explained—and then still need this last thing too: that Dean should be able to give him up. There's no way Dean can do it. The loneliness will kill him. How can Sam lie there underneath him and not know?

Dean's shaking now, because he's afraid. He's crushing Sam into the grass, and Sam's just staring up at him. He’s not even struggling anymore. The break in the feedback loop of their violence is bearing down on Dean like a freight train. He can hear it behind him, feel it filling him full of nothing, a terrifying preview of when it won't just be the fight that's gone, but all the rest of Sam too. Sam's stupid, relentlessly bitchy, too pink mouth is right there an inch from his own, and Dean wants his brother to bleed.

Why shouldn't he?

Why shouldn't they both hurt the same?

He eases up the pressure on Sam's throat, bends down, and presses his lips against Sam's. They catch Sam on his desperate inhale, and Dean crushes their mouths together, jams his tongue between Sam's teeth. It's not even a kiss really, more like an extension of their fist-fight.

It’s not at all pleasant.

Sam just lets him.

Sam tilts his head a little so Dean can fit their mouths together tighter. He opens up wider so Dean can steal his breath away with his mouth instead of his hand. He lets Dean bite at his lips 'til they're swollen, tongue fuck his mouth 'til he's gasping for air. He doesn't kiss back.

When Dean breaks away, hand light across his trachea, no real pressure at all—Sam says, "What're you doing, Dean?" His voice is shaky. Dean ignores him.

He abandons Sam's mouth, and moves the hand around Sam's throat to the base of his neck; sucks and kisses a collar of bruises above it to remember him by. He bites at the tendon beside Sam's carotid pulse. All Sam's blood runs there, hour after hour, day after day, so close to the surface Dean could kill him with his teeth if he wanted.

He reaches between them for Sam's zipper. Sam moans, but it's a good moan, low and broken open and not at all the kind that might drive some sense back into Dean's head. Dean gets Sam's zipper worked down, and reaches into his fly.

Sam's cock is still soft.

"Dean," Sam says. "Dean, stop."

Dean pulls Sam's cock out of his briefs, holds the velvet weight of his brother in his hand. He strokes Sam gently, coaxes him to beautiful hardness, runs his finger across Sam's slit where precome is starting to bead.

"Jesus, Dean, stop." Sam is panting again. "Tomorrow you'll—ah, god, Dean."

Sam pushes at Dean's chest, but if he means to get Dean off him he'll have to do better. There's no strength behind it, and he’s opened his guard, legs splayed wide around Dean’s thighs.

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says. He's surprised by the tenderness in his voice. He thought he wanted Sam hurting, wanted to teach Sam with his body the destruction Sam's wrecked on his heart. Now he's not so sure.

He puts his free hand over Sam's mouth, and Sam shakes his head from side to side a little, but then he settles. His ass rocks up against Dean's cock while Dean jerks him. Dean's so hard it hurts, and Sam's hard as hell now too, leaking precome slick all over Dean's hand.

The door to the bar bangs open and the parking lot fills with the sounds of closing time; laughter and footsteps and snatches of conversation; car doors opening and closing, the roar of engines coming to life, and the crunch of gravel under tires.

"I wanna fuck you, Sam," Dean whispers. "Lay still for me like a good boy."

Sam shudders, full body, head to toe, and his cock jumps in Dean's grip. A little whine, barely vocalized, escapes his lips past Dean's hand. He shakes his head 'no' again, but lies perfectly still.

Dean eases his hand off. Sam's eyes are screwed closed tight. He doesn't move or make a noise. Dean gets his fingers in Sam's belt loops and yanks. Sam lifts his hips to help. Dean tugs Sam's boxer briefs past his erection and down, and Sam helps with that too. Sam's boots are still on, and Dean has to pull them off one at a time before he can get Sam's pants and underwear over his ankles. Sam just lies there, compliant and silent and irresistible as a god.

"You ever done this before?" Dean asks. Sam shakes his head no, and Christ, Dean didn't think he could get any harder.

"I'll take care of you, make it good for you, okay Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head again, eyes still closed, trembling half naked in the tall grass.

It doesn't matter. Sam owes him this and more besides. He’s as vital to Dean as breathing. Dean needs to own him—to have some hold on him that Sam can't break when he goes. And Sam needs this too, whether he admits it or not. He needs his brother with him when he goes. The _okay?_ was a formality; Sam's not running, and if he did, Dean would chase him down.

An image of the asshole bartender flashes through Dean's thoughts, the flat cruelty of his gaze faced away from Sam, and the predatory tenderness faced towards him, and Dean grins in the dark above his baby brother, who he taught to walk and read, and he isn't sorry. If anything, there's a fierce joy blazing hot inside him, and he thinks _I'm going to Hell, and I deserve it,_ and it's fine, completely fine, he doesn't care.

He wrestles his own pants and boxers off, kneels between Sam's legs, and pulls Sam by the hips so Sam’s ass is snugged back up against Dean’s cock where it belongs. He pushes Sam’s T-shirt up so he can run his hands over the flat planes of his stomach, bend forward and lick and bite Sam’s nipples until Sam is restless and squirming again.

Sam’s teen-slender body is luminous in the orange half-light. His erection lays heavy and perfect against his belly. Dean skims its length lightly, circles the head, and sucks Sam’s precome off his fingers. It's salty and delicious, and it tastes even better knowing he's getting his fingers wet for Sam.

He wishes things were different, that he had Sam laid out like this in the bright light of day, could see all of Sam at once; the summer tan on Sam's skin, the aching pleasure Dean wants to put on his face, the furl of his hole at the tip of Dean's finger, even inside him—Dean wants that too; his heart, his blood, the air in his lungs—Dean wants it all, and can only get a fraction.

He traces a line down the underside of Sam's cock and back past his balls, teases the skin around Sam's hole, says _bear down, Sam,_ and slips his finger in. He strokes Sam's cock as he fingers him open. Sam's hips jerk, and he grabs at Dean’s thighs to hold himself steady. His prostate's easy to find; Dean's been with a couple guys, knows what to do, gets Sam moaning so hard he has to let Sam's dick go and cover his mouth again instead.

Sam whines in protest, but Dean says _you do it, Sam. Show me what you want,_ and Sam does. He wraps his fist around himself, and the flushed head of his perfect cock rises from the tunnel of his fingers and sinks back down, rises and sinks, tentative at first, embarrassed maybe, then slow and sure.

"That how you like it, Sammy?" Dean asks.

Sam nods, and this time it's Dean who moans. Because Sam is following the rhythm of Dean's fingers inside him. His mouth is soft against Dean's other hand. His breath tickles Dean's palm, eases Dean's constant fear, from as far back as he can remember, that the universe will take Sam away.

Dean's cock throbs and his balls are aching and full. He doesn't have a condom, and there’ve been times in the past when he wasn't as careful as he should've been, but he doesn't care. It's plenty wrong already and he's gotta have Sam raw, nothing between them at all.

He draws his fingers back out of Sam past the clinging pressure of his rim. He spits on his hand, wets his dick up good, and nudges the head of his cock against Sam's hole.

"Hey. Hey, Sam. Look at me," he orders, but Sam doesn't. Sam shakes his head, eyes shut tight like a child. Makes that little sound again, not even a moan—more of a kitten's mewl.

"Sammy, open your eyes," Dean says again, stern, and this time Sam does. He looks up at his brother above him, and it’s the exact same look as when he was four and Dean showed him the letters in his name, or six and Dean stood beside him in the water with his hands around Sam’s waist and taught him to swim. It's full of faith Dean doesn't deserve, and god, god, it's what Dean was waiting for. He breaches Sam, sinks slowly into him like going home.

Sam’s hole clamps down around Dean’s cock, and little pain lines form at the corners of Sam’s eyes.

"It's okay, I've got you," Dean says. "Just relax."

Sam lets a deep breath out against Dean's palm. Relaxes his muscles with the same deliberate care he’d use to steady his gun hand on a hunt. Dean rocks inside him gently, barely moving, until Sam's body accommodates him, and Sam's expression smooths into pleasure.

Dean thrusts in deep and Sam’s hips push up to meet him. He sets a pace and Sam follows. Sam's hot and tight around Dean's cock, responsive under his hands. He gleams with sweat, and the sex flush on his chest darkens as his thighs hold tight around Dean’s hips.

The rhythm of Sam's fist as he jerks himself grows more desperate, and Dean bats his hand away and takes over. He wants to hold Sam suspended here in this moment forever, but Sam whimpers, and it burns through Dean like fire.

"Gonna come for me, Sammy?" Dean growls, and Sam does, just like that, spills thick and warm all over Dean's hand.

He clenches around Dean’s cock as he comes, and Dean follows him over the edge.

——

Sam holds him through the aftershocks, and then lets go. He doesn't really nudge Dean exactly, but he adjusts his position a couple times in a way Dean knows from chicks means "that was great, but you're heavy, get off". Dean eases out of Sam and rolls onto his back beside him.

Sam's quiet. The night sky spreads out like velvet above them, the stars like glitter caught in its folds. Dean comes down off his orgasm slow, lets his breathing even out at its own pace. His head's a jumble of endorphins and whiskey and whatever that hormone that makes dudes fall asleep after they jizz is, and his body's one big post-sex buzz. He'd rather not think too hard about what comes next.

If Sam was a girl he met at a roadhouse, he'd make a joke now—a sweet one that would compliment her sexual prowess. She'd giggle, and they'd chat a little, and he'd offer her a ride home.

But if Sam was a girl, or even just a stranger, Dean would never in a million years have gotten near where they are now.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah, I'm fine." His voice is a little weird, but not _I'm traumatized forever_ or _I hate you_ -level weird.

"We could, uh, go find that hotel doucheface recommended."

"Yeah. Okay," Sam agrees. But Dean's still looking up at the stars, and Sam's side of the great outdoors doesn't have any getting up noises coming from it either.

"Okay then," Dean says. And a few minutes later, when nothing's still happening, "We should at least put our pants on, dude. Mosquitoes are eating my junk."

Sam doesn't say anything, or even make that annoyed huff he has when Dean's not as funny as he pretends to be, but Dean grabs his pants off the ground anyhow, and shakes them off as he stands. Somehow there's sand all over them, like they banged at the freaking beach. The parking lot is empty now, except for Baby and a single dented up Cavalier.

And on the front steps of the bar is the bartender.

He's smoking a cigarette and looking straight at Dean.

The weeds where Dean’s standing come up past his knees, and it’s far from bright despite the sodium lights. There's no way he could've seen much.

Still—it's a tad on the creepy side, the way he's staring straight at Dean. The way the Miller sign reflects red off his skin and his eyes are so deep in shadow they look jet black. The way he drops his cigarette on the cement, and stamps it out without breaking eye contact, as if smoking wasn't the point, and he was waiting specifically for Dean to finish up and notice him.

He nods at Dean's feet where Sam’s lying—though surely he can’t see much of Sam at all—and he smiles his shark's smile, and Dean's stomach crawls. He doesn't want to take his eyes off the bastard, but he suddenly needs to make sure Sam is okay.

Even though he knows Sam is okay.

Or at least mostly okay. Obviously Sam isn't _really_ okay, how could he be, but he _said_ he was okay, and that's something.

Dammit all. He looks down.

Sam is crying.

Dean has fucked up bad.

——

Sam’s crying isn't drunk emo weeping like a chick or anything. He's pretty composed. He's lying there on his back, with his soft dick exposed, and his stupid purple T-shirt pushed up, and there's come all over his stomach, and he's totally quiet, and tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes and making shiny tear tracks down the sides of his face to his ears. He doesn't seem to notice, and somehow that's worse.

"Sam."

"It's fine, Dean. I'm fine," Sam says, and wipes his hands over his eyes. He feels around in the gravel and weeds for his pants without really looking, and scootches them on without getting up. But then his eyes start leaking again, so the whole attempt at fineness is a washout.

Dean has no idea what to do. His mind is utterly blank.

The world starts spinning way too fast, and if he doesn't get closer to the ground, he'll puke, so he's at least aware step one is sitting down. He gingerly lowers himself into the grass beside Sam, and when Sam doesn't flinch—or run away like he no doubt should—and the earth doesn't feel any less like gravity could malfunction and toss him out into space, he lies down flat.

"God, Sam. Fuck, I—"

"Don't, Dean." Sam sighs. "Can you just—shut up and give me a minute? Okay?"

Dean could definitely shut up and give Sam a minute. In fact, he could shut up and give Sam a lifetime. He's so pathetically grateful to shut up, it's not even funny. The parking lot lights flick off, and the field descends into darkness. A car door slams, and the Cavalier drives off into the dead hours of night to ruin someone else's life.

Sam inches closer to Dean until he's so close he's tucked up again Dean's side. He puts his head on Dean's chest like Dean's pec is somehow a safe and mighty pillow. It makes Dean's heart beat too hard, and his stupid, traitorous dick twitch, and he wants to ask Sam what the fuck he thinks he's doing. But it's clear whose turn it is to make the bad decisions, so he bites his tongue and gathers Sam up in the circle of his arms. He pets Sam's hair like he wasn't the one who just hurt Sam in the first place. Sam's breathing evens out into calmness, and not long thereafter, into sleep.

——

Dean dreams of fire and screaming.

He wakes, and the stars have barely moved from where they were before he closed his eyes. Sam's head is resting on his shoulder now, and Sam is snuffling quietly in his sleep like he'd do as a kid if he cried too hard before bedtime.

Sam's arm is lying possessively across Dean's chest, so Dean strokes it gently, and Sam sighs. Dean turns his head, and Sam's hair brushes soft as down against his cheek and tickles his nose. It's wrong that Sam's body weight curled up bird-light against his side comforts him, but it is what it is, and can't be remedied. In the morning, he'll drive Sam to the bus station. For now, he soaks up Sam's warmth for the long winter that will start when Sam boards the bus, and end when—

It's best not to think about that.

Dean watches the stars, and resists the temptation to fidget. His eyes get heavy, and he drifts off again. The fire comes back—first in Sam's nursery, and then a blazing conflagration of nothing in particular, just directionless smoke and ruin and pain.

He's alone in the empty dark, and it hurts, and he burns. He screams, but no one comes. The sky is black and the earth is gone, and he's crying and it doesn't help.

But there’s a touch against the crown of his head, so gentle he barely notices it through the pain at first. An invisible hand brushes through his hair, and it’s better. The darkness rocks his aching body gently.

A voice from nowhere comforts him, "Shhh, shhh. It's okay, Dean, I’m here."

It’s Sam voice, reassuring and tender with love.

“I’m here,” Sam says. “You could have just asked."

Dean settles then, like a colicky baby being put down for a nap. The sick, crawling wrongness in his belly still claws to get out, and it doesn’t stop hurting, not really—but even so, it's okay. He can't see Sam, but Sam’s presence is everywhere.

——

Dean wakes squinting at the sun that shines balefully down into his hung-over eyes. He's stiff and sore and has sand in his hair. His mouth tastes so bad, salting and burning his tongue might not be sufficient to fix it.

He stretches the kinks out of his back; locates Baby, waiting faithfully for him as always. The wind rustles the grass.

It's quiet.

Dead quiet.

A bolt of panic sets Dean's heart racing. He turns in a circle, surveying the empty field, the vacant parking lot, the deserted bar, the long blank road with no one on it.

A blue jay squawks in a branch across the street.

Nothing else moves.

Sam is gone.


End file.
